arab money and the famlay guy….

don’t judge me. don’t bomb me. fuck you, pay me.

 

too early to celebrate the win, nah…..

I am so happy at the way the pre election polling is shaping up. I’ve done my part and early voted, and i am bubbling with anticipation to see how big the margin of victory is going to be. It is fun to see everybody so motivated and to have all my friends agree that it is time for a change.  It is with this confidence that i present to you, Obama Girl.  She probably won’t make it to any other posts, but it felt right at the moment.

Brianna’s got the blues…

Brianna Frost and a perfect soundtrack to back her back.

i, robot?….

Photos by Martin Laport

SEX MACHINE

Intercourse Has Been Replaced

Be honest. How many painful hours have you and your erection spent pretending to listen to the inane prattle of some excruciatingly self-absorbed twit while wondering whether or not she’s ever going to shut up and let you stick your hands in her pants? How many times have you found yourself thinking: “Is this really worth the trouble? Isn’t there some way — aside from wanking — that I could milk the mongoose without actually having to interact with yet another annoying, vapid (not to mention smelly) human being?”

Well, if you’re like me (and you are, whether you care to admit it or not) the answer is far too many. But unless you live in close proximity to a large flock of sheep, there was never really much that you could do about it.

Until now, that is. Yes, after only a few millennia, science has finally pulled its gene-splicing, space-shuttling, nuclear-missile-building head out of its ass and invented something that will actually improve the lives of human beings.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the SEX MACHINE.

Following in the inspired footsteps of Einstein and Edison, Montrealer Patrick More came up with the idea for his creation while polishing his car with an industrial-strength buffer. After noting that the machine sent waves of pleasant vibrations through his crotch, he set out in search of a way to share this sensual revelation with the world.

The final product is an eight-foot-tall sheet of Plexiglas, molded into the shape of a voluptuous woman as if, say, Pamela Anderson had run into a wall of molten plastic and had her every curve and bump preserved unto eternity. Between the legs of said indentation is a metal tube that has been lined with an inflatable blood-pressure cuff. The client slides a specially designed latex sleeve (with French ticklers on the inside) over his enthrobbed magnificence, inserts it into the tube, and pumps up the cuff to achieve the desired tightness. A nearby rotary dimmer switch allows him to control the degree of vibration that surges through his genitalia, all the way from a delicate brushing of butterfly wings, to an oo-ooh m-mm-my g-g-g-god I-I’m f-f-fucking a d-d-um-p-t-t-ruck effect.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the wall, a very naked young lady presses her body into the indentations in the Plexiglas and wordlessly urges the client towards an orgasm that could be described as a religious experience if going to church ever made you feel like cum was shooting out of your eyeballs.

For those who care about such things, the whole deal is completely legal, according to the Supreme Court of Canada, because there is never any physical contact between the hostess and her client.

So where do I sign up? you’re asking. Sadly, this world-shattering technology is currently accessible only to those who dare to journey into the heart of Montreal’s red-light district. But it seems only a matter of time before the sex machine replaces television as the primary source of home entertainment.

The implications are stupendous. Men, no longer forced to waste innumerable hours nodding and smiling in the hopes of swabbing the honeypot, will use their newfound time to move our civilization forward, create magnificent works of art, and invent an even better sex machine, something Patrick says is already in the works. Women, so used to fending off unwanted propositions, will suddenly find themselves liberated from their role as sexual objects and do whatever it is that women do when drunks are not harassing them in bars.

Frankly, the future never looked so bright.

ROBBIE DILLON

http://www.viceland.com/int/v9n4/htdocs/sex_machine.php

when the chips are down

so i waited until after the 700 billion dollar bail out before i decided to check my losses. Heavy they were. Am i mad? No. Its a part of the game. Can’t blame the game if the game don’t feed you. That means i should know better. Whats the point of investing when you can’t control it once its taken. The stock market is all about chance. Take a gamble and hope you survive. I’m glad i’m young enough that the amount doesn’t matter much. But imagine if i was 70. Things are never as good as they seem.

the nikkei has risen….

 

 

 

vice magazine sex issue

Lauren, a 26-year-old from Long Island, is New York City’s youngest madam. She rents out girls—mostly models who aren’t going to make it—to Wall Streeters who are too busy, lazy, or drunk to pick up girls that might actually like them. Here’s what else we learned: • Lauren spends a half-million dollars a year in advertising. “TV spots, ads in local papers, even just a page in the yellow pages costs 45 grand,” she said. • Whores beget whores. “I find most of my girls through referrals. Once a girl sees how much money her friend makes, she wants in too.” • Lauren tells callers about the same girl, using different names and several price ranges. “Guys tend to go for the highest-priced girl. All I’ve got to do is tell her her name before she heads out.” Prices stretch from $300 to $1500 per hour, depending on the girl. (Rates are all-inclusive, from first kiss to blowing a load on her tits.) • Lauren says that one of her girls has dated a guy in a band for a few years (let’s just say they’re top 40 and their name rhymes with Pimple Glan). “He thinks she models,” Lauren admits. “He loves that she has money of her own. Of course, he thinks she makes it modeling. Most models only make like $150 a day, though. You make more waiting tables.” JAKE BRONSTEIN (Click here for more dirty stories)		This is a post-op picture of our interview subject’s catastrophic penile fracture. CLICK THIS PHOTO IF YOU HAVE NOT EATEN WITHIN THE LAST HOUR We thought it was an urban legend on par with pop rocks and Coke, but nope—you can fracture your penis. Repeat: YOU CAN FRACTURE YOUR PENIS. Our friend here, who insists on remaining anonymous, did just that. VICE: How. The. Fuck. Did. This. Happen? Guy Who Broke His Dick: I was fucking someone really hard, pulling my dick completely in and out. I had an off-target reentry and BANG! How will I know if I’ve broken my penis? Good one. Wait, you’re serious? Trust me, you’ll know. First you hear a loud cracking or popping noise. Then comes unspeakable pain and instantaneous loss of erection. If you’ve managed to also tear your urethra, which happens in 10% of cases — including mine — you’ll be pressure-spraying your immediate surroundings with an unbelievable amount of blood. I pulled the condom off my broken dick right when it happened, and there were just jets of blood spraying out. And I’m sure the operation to fix this is totally painless. Sure. First the doc has to check if your piss tube is still intact. Leave that untreated and you’ll be urinating like a lawn sprinkler forevermore. If it’s busted, you’ll likely be sporting a catheter for a while. Then he’ll drain any hematoma and then — and this was the best part — he’ll get to patching up your corpora and tunica. Give it to me in plain English. OK, OK. I went to a reconstructive penile specialist. He removed the cap of my penis, fixed up the insides, then slid the cap back on and stitched it up. Can we get a photo? Oh man. I guess. GRANT STODDARD
GO TO PAGE 2 When I was in sixth grade, we had this Yorkshire terrier. He would hump anything. Couch pillows, stuffed animals, your leg. We could not get over laughing at him. I was playing with the dog one day. I had a piece of paper balled up, and I got the idea to put it in my underwear. I wanted him to go down on me. He did. Whenever I was home alone I would get him to go down on me. I wasn’t into that it was a dog. I did it in my bed, squatting in my closet, and under my mom’s bed. I did it mostly when she wasn’t there, but I remember once she was. It was the afternoon and she was on the telephone right above me and the dog. After a while my mom and my sister knew what was going on. So I turned sneaky. I rinsed the dog’s nose off after, so he didn’t smell. When his snout was wet, he had a little French-guy mustache. It made me sick. My sister moved away and the dog went with her. He got all these teeth infections and ultimately died while being put under to have something done to his mouth. NICKI LUPUS (Click here for more dirty stories) Time to debunk a myth once and for all: Jews don’t fuck through a hole in a sheet. This BS may stem from an undergarment that Hasidic men wear called a Tallit. It’s a poncho, but Jewish. When laid out flat, it looks like a sheet with a hole in it. Supposedly, gentiles would see these things on laundry lines in Jewish neighborhoods and draw their own perverted conclusions. Ancient Jewish law says couples should be naked when doing it because then they feel “powerful emotions awaked when the body is caused to tingle by contact with another body.” Eww, “tingle.” According to Bracha Rudner, a rebbetzin (rabbi’s wife) and expert on Taharot Hamishpacha (laws of family purity), “It’s written in the Ketubah (Jewish wedding contract) that a man must have relations with his wife even if she’s post-menopausal and even during pregnancy.” The Talmud says that men have to ensure that their wife has an orgasm. There are even detailed guidelines about the required frequency of sex. “The times for conjugal duty prescribed in the Torah are: for men of independence, every day; for laborers, twice a week; for ass-drivers, once a week; for camel-drivers, once in 30 days; for sailors, once in six months. These are the rulings of Rabbi Eliezer.” Hear that, ass-drivers? You are required by Talmudic law to fuck weekly. KELLY AMNER Scientists in India have invented a liquid drug, Kamagra Oral Jelly, that makes Viagra feel like a baby aspirin. Available from coke dealers in London at 100mg for £5, it comes in mint, orange, or pineapple flavor. I took an entire sachet of pineapple at 10:30 PM on a Wednesday. I’d fucked my girlfriend four hours previously and I had the flu, so the odds of getting an erection were low. Yet 30 minutes in, my head started throbbing, my face went red, and my dick started getting hard. I told my girl it was her duty to test my cock out, and because she only gets fucked about three times a week maximum, she complied. I’m delighted to say that my dick got so inhumanly hard that I fucked her for one-and-a-half hours straight, or however long it was that the Eminem documentary I was watching over her shoulder took to play out. Then she fell asleep. I stayed up for four more hours playing PlayStation with the worst headache ever. The next day yielded a couple of unprompted, painful boners, which made it really hard to take a sit-down shit in the morning. Still, my girlfriend’s been really mellow for hours, so I’d definitely think about taking Kamagra again. ANDRE CORPER GO TO PAGE 3 You’re walking down the street in Tokyo, and—fuck it, you’re straight, and they’re beautiful and they dress sexy—girls in their early 20s are catching your eye. Luckily, your brainy (and imaginary) friend Factman is walking beside you. And he’s gay. “Do you know,” Factman tells you, “that one in 16 of these young women has worked in the sex industry?” You don’t really hear him, because some slim, pretty schoolgirls in plaid skirts and sailor-suit jackets are approaching. “They look like butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths, don’t they?” says Factman. “But about a quarter of these kids have already taken part in telephone chat clubs, dating older men for paid sex in one of Japan’s 40,000 love hotels. One source has estimated that soon up to 50% of Japanese people living in urban areas will be working in jobs related to the sex industry, which in Japan soaks up 1% of GNP. That makes sex as big a sector here as defense, and the sex industry richer than many medium-sized nations.” You’re not listening. Right in front of the train station some sleazebag is pestering a pretty girl, following her down the street saying stuff in her ear, touching her shoulder. She just smiles and walks on. “Factman, shouldn’t we do something? That’s pure harassment!” “She doesn’t mind,” Factman explains. “It’s all about money. The guy’s a scout for a porn film company. He knows she loves shopping for expensive Fendi handbags and Prada shoes and maybe owes millions to loan sharks. He’s giving her a chance to become a porn idol and earn 20,000 bucks a video. If she works for 20 days, she can earn as much as 4 million yen. That’s a lot of Prada.” “Jesus God, Japanese men must be even bigger masturbators than I am!” you exclaim. “Well, they probably have sex less than you do, especially if they’re married,” says Factman, peeling a banana. “After children arrive, straight couples tend to cool off here. There are also a lot more single men in their 30s these days. So there’s a wide range of sex for sale. For about $500 you can go to a Soapland and have a naked woman soap up and slither all over your body. For about half that you can have crotch play (handjobs, blowjobs) or delivery health, a kind of pizza-delivery service with sex instead of pizza. For a hundred bucks you can screw some illegal Filipino dancer being pressured by her manager to ‘broaden her appeal’ in a tough recessionary climate. And then there’s a range of quickies for cheapos, stuff like Fashion Massage…” When you get home, you decide to become gay. After all, being into Japanese girls is the last stop before full-on homosexuality. Everybody knows that. You email Factman your fave J-porn websites with free daily movies. You won’t be needing them anymore, but his magic eyes can see through the pixel mosaics to the dicks beneath, so maybe he’ll be able to use them. MOMUS How hot is this guy? He’s like, a perfect 10. Great lips. Great attitude. He’s got a better ass than Joe Namath and a better vagina than, I don’t know, the best vagina in New York. What are the girls in Sex and the City complaining about? Are they blind? There are plenty of hot dudes in this city—and this guy’s at the top of the list. SANDRA DEE (Click here for more dirty stories) Escort rates are skyrocketing. Last year, you could get a cute guy to come over and tongue your asshole all night for £200. These days, you’re looking at £800. Enter Joe Loner—the no-fees, no-strings-attached gay escort who’s making a real name for himself in the rent-boy scene. Based in a council flat in Islington, Joe has no fees and a progressive “no condoms” policy. If visit, don’t look for a boyfriend-y experience. Joe never takes his face out from under his sheets. He just lies there on his bed while you fuck the shit out of him. When our photographer asked him to explain why he’s so generous with his tattooed ass, Joe mumbled, “Just get on with it.” JON SPRITE